


victims in noir films

by Skullszeyes



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dark, Dubious Consent, Resident Evil 7: biohazard, Suicide, Victim - Freeform, re7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9732734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skullszeyes/pseuds/Skullszeyes
Summary: You're the survivor of your families killing, and Lucas decides to come visit you. Things are in your favor once you grab his knife.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So, this wasn't how I wanted to write this. :/ It sort of just wrote itself. I liked it, so I didn't bother editing out some parts. I'll write the one I wanted to write. :D 
> 
> (The Pretty Reckless - You Make Me Wanna Die.) - Song I listened to while writing this.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and don't mind how it gets dark.

Hours inside the dull room and you’re picking at the wound that stopped bleeding around your ankle where a chain, thick and cold is wrapped around it, caked with old and new blood. Shuddering from the cold that you’re not used too, skin prickled with goosebumps and shallow knife wounds along your arms. You wear a thin tank-top, dirtied and old, you figured _he_ got it from his sister who visited not too long ago. Shorts, leaving your legs bare, pressed against your chest where you sit, alone in the corner. Counting the flickers of the light above.

The door to the room is locked, you haven’t tried the knob, the chain won’t let you and it already dug into your ankle enough that trying again would be foolish. It’d only rub against the existing one and you’re tired. Too tired to care. Lack of food and water deteriorated your strength, pain stabbed your senses that moving only makes you want to cry out.

A soft eternity in an archaic prison, like an old noir film where the victim finds a way out. You wonder where the hope that should have been inside you was. Did it pulse along with your beating heart on the dust road, on the cusp of crying with a man holding a knife follows. Faster limbs, a laughter cuts into you before hitting the ground. The gashes healed in slow progression on your knees, not so pretty skin where dirt has filled its way inside. You picked most of it out after he left you inside the room, crying low so he won’t hear.

So he won’t scream again, yelling and waving a knife at you. A horror, cursed with rage and a burden of dissatisfaction. He already killed your sister, your brother, your parents. It was only luck you managed to escape the massacre as the father drove the shovel through their lifeless bodies.

_Lock her up._

Away from the sun, from the sky, from the breath of the wind. How long has it been since you’ve been here. There wasn’t anything in the room, nothing to use as a weapon, as a key. Nothing to escape this eternity.

Your ear twitched at the subtle sound of footfalls coming close to the room. You breathe through your nose, trying to push yourself in the corner of the wall. To disappear from sight. Tucking the trembling cry in the recess of your heart, you know they don’t like it. You know it won’t help.

The door jiggles and opens with a low creak. He wanders in, holding a plate filled with something that looked like decay. Wet and dry, it leaves you afraid of the inevitable truth of what it is.

He crouches, his hood is off this time, like it was when he knocked you to the ground and it flew back. Sickly skin, deep bags underneath his wild eyes, a strength you couldn’t fight. He tilts his head, brows arched before grimacing down at the food.

“I wouldn’t eat this shit either,” he said, placing the plate down, gauging your reaction, luring you in as he rises to close the door with himself still inside.

You’d endure without the temptation. Hoping it wouldn’t shatter like your strength, your nails dig into your broken skin and you wince. A trembled breath and he smiles, lax and careful.

“Maybe if you didn’t fight, you wouldn’t have those,” he indicates the wounds, a thin blood trails down to your feet.

You don’t look, the warmth is like a tear. You keep your attention on him, wondering why he’s here? Is it just to taunt you of the circumstance you’re in, to belittle you that you’re the only survivor of a massacre.

You would not break, not in front of him.

“Dad’s not happy,” he says, brows pinched together, his eyes narrow as if he were looking at something, but there’s nothing here. In the chasm between is mindless and precise.

You push your nail into the wound, swallowing the pain, it’s wrought with a placid whisper in your shaky nerves. You don’t resist, you fall, taking it all in, gripping that pain that is the only literal sense in this distortion.

He sniffles, looking at you and he sees something that wasn’t there a second ago. It’s on your face, cradling inside your eyes. He’s faster too, wrenching you forward by the wrist, the chain clatters with the movement as both hands grip your arms, tight, fingers digging smooth crescents in your skin.

“Your cold,” he says, a breath away, looking for something but all you could see is the reflection of fear in his.

He shoves you down and crawls on top, head tilted to the side, keeping you still. Just like out on the dirt road, but before there was a laughter on his lips.

Like an oil spill, it spreads, an image, a last second thought, a sick fear pumping in your heart all the way to your brain.

His gaze wilts, frowning. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Your open wounds pulse with life at the lie he spoke. Empty like the room, cold like the floor, difficult to believe with the chain around your ankle, digging welts in your skin.

“Liar,” you say, weak and tired.

His lips stretch into a smile, a wash of blood, soaking the fabric of his shirt, screams embedded in his hands, forever in his head like a symphony of a distorted record player.

“I promise,” and he kisses you.

Your eyes close tight and his lips move, but your gripping his arms, trying to push him back with the thought of your family dead. Something clicks in your head and the memory speeds up, the knife glinting in the morning light.

Your hands drag down and for a moment, you go along with the kiss. A tear rolling down your cheek as you grasp the knife from the inside of his pocket. It’s not as heavy, but he doesn’t notice, and you tighten your hold around its handle and shove it up into his side.

Like the victims in noir films. They always end up stabbing someone, escaping, running for their lives and never looking back.

He gasps, his eyes widen and there’s a flicker of fury behind it. You shove him off and he stumbles, hitting his back on the floor. You grip the knife with blood sliding down your hand.

And he starts to laugh.

He leans up by his elbows, brow arched with a smile. “No one has done that yet.”

Your breath stutters. _Does he die? Why isn’t he hurt?_ “What are you?”

“A monster, maybe,” he shrugs.

Could you fight monsters with a chain around your ankle? You weren’t sure and your family was still there, in your mind, in your heart, even though in truth they were dead.

You lift the blade to your throat, slick with blood.

He watches, curious, with a look of death in his eyes, a hollowness that sickens you. Pressing deeper with a trembling hand, you cut a thick line into your throat, gurgling pain, torching your body before death sinks into you, taking you away from a dreaded fate.


End file.
